


Growing Pains

by The0verboss



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Dark, Dorks in Love, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kisses, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Plant abuse, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The bookshop, at least for the first half, briefly, kinda. at the beginning., sorta - Freeform, told from the perspective of a terrified house plant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The0verboss/pseuds/The0verboss
Summary: This starts out a little dark, and is told initially from the perspective of one of Crowley's plants. Rating is for how our beloved Crowley actually gets toward one of the sprouts. it gets better. promiseAlternatly Titled, "Crowley plays God to work out his issues"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	Growing Pains

**Author's Note:**

> You know, i used to write tons of smut. now i write fics with so much emotional baggage that they can't carry it on the plane. This is really just an excuse for me to write from a plant perspective, because i am a plant parent and i love them. and what do we do with things we love? we hurt them in fanfiction.

The air in the Mayfair flat is chilled, the light a shivering darkness, barely illuminated by the murky skylight shining down. There's a sort of trembling quality to it, or perhaps that's all the others, terrified in their pots and stands, leaves stiff and aloft and shaking. Verdant and practically glowing. 

They know what's coming, can sense doom like old men sense storms in old bones, can taste it on the air like snakes. Like one snake in particular. It's been too quiet today. 

He's coming. 

_Oh no. No. He can't come today. He'll see._

Spores and pollen and a million other particles float on the air, an alarm that can't be helped. They never say his name, never think it, to speak it would be to invite that wrath upon themselves. But still he comes. 

A black snake slithers from the back rooms of the flat, thick as a man's arm with eyes like bile. He moves across grey stone floors, his coils dragging in a high hisssssss. He'd be silent in the grass; would come upon his prey quickly. But where's the fun in that? Where's the menace?

_He's coming, come on perk up! We have to perk up!_

He grows like a tree in moments, from slithering on His belly to arms stretching to a heaven He couldn't hope to touch. He cracks a lanky back and runs His bony fingers through sin red hair. His eyes are uncovered and His slit pupils glance around the room before He picks up the spray bottle balanced on the edge of a large planter. 

_Oh no. The vest!_

_Just the vest, no shirt!_

_He's going out! He'll be gone for days!_

The others titter fearfully, shaking leaves and clenched roots. They all know what it means when He goes out. Especially if He dressed for it, the tightest slacks, chest revealed by the low neck of his vest. He's got His good jewelry on too, the silver chain selection, two smaller and a larger, one with a silver ring and the longest with a black wing hanging to just brush his exposed chest hair. A black velvet line lays tight across a long throat. Yes it's undeniable, He's dressed to impress, which means He'll be thorough when He checks them over. 

_Maybe He won't! Maybe He'll be in a rush._

_Poor thing, you're done for._

He plucks at several of the other's leaves, leans in close, let's a forked tongue flick out. 

"Now, I wonder what's got you lot so worked up," He says and arches an eyebrow before moving to the next planter. "Could hear you carrying on down the hall. And all I could think was someone must be acting out." He sniffs at the orchids, pinches the bromeliads. "But no, not you guys, not knowing I have a special meeting with my Angel today. I know you wouldn't daaaaare act out today. Esssssspecialy after I told you about it yessssterday. You wouldn't want to--oh...Oh my what's this…"

_Oh no. Oh no no no!_

A hand reaches under the foliage and grips a pot with vice like strength, draws the plant out from under the shady cover of it's leafy friend. It's small still, only a handful of leaves, striped green and white and pink leaves. Well mostly green and white and pink leaves. All except one leaf to be precise. One leaf, **one whole leaf** , is brown and withered all the way down it's stem. 

"Oh dear we are in trouble, aren't we." He says shaking his head, eyes gone all yellow, pupils contracted.

_I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'll do better!_

"You're sssorry are you? Bit late for that isssssn't it." There are fangs now, and a face gone all twisted with anger. "No, you know what, I don't think you're sssorry, you're just sssorry you got caught. Lazy, miserable little shit, do you have any idea-" 

_It'll do better! Please!_

He shakes the pot before slamming it down on a pedestal in the middle of the room. It hadn't been there a moment ago, but it isn't new. He leans in, to hiss into the striped leaves. "Look what you've started. Look what you're going to make me do!"

He stands straight, brushes a hand down his vest, cracks his knuckles one handed and glares at the rest of the plants around the room. 

"Don't I give you everything you need," He starts, walking a circle around the room. "I water you. You're low light plants, this flat certainly has low light." He's laughing, but it isn't a nice laugh, bitter, betrayed. "Plant food, well I have given you the best! Humidity! All of it, everything is perfect! You lot should be absolutely thrilled to be here! But no. Instead you give me this. THIS! THIS IS HOW YOU THINK TO SHOW ME YOUR GRATITUDE!"

_No, I can do better! I'm sorry! I can!_

"Oh no I don't think so. No no, it's the kitchen for you I'm afraid!" He snaps the plant up by it's stems, and its roots spread to hold onto it's pot.

_No! Please not the kitchen! No one comes back from the kitchen! I'll do better! I promise!_

These pleas fall on deaf ears as all He does is hiss and begin a leisurely saunter back the way he came. 

"As for the rest of you, you best believe I will be checking each and every one of you when I'm finished with your friend. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!" 

The kitchen is no warmer than any other room in the Mayfair flat, it's color pallet even darker, with black subway tile as the backsplash against black marble countertops. Trails of silver wind their way to the most devastating part of the kitchen, the undermounted sink. To the left of it a three set of nearly hidden switches. There are no plants in this room, nothing alive at all, a veritable tomb. He turns on the faucet let's the water run for a moment, glares at the plant in his hand. A moment later and He turns on the garbage disposal.

"You hear that!" He asks, but of course yes yes the poor thing can hear it. "That's the sound of slicers getting ready to cut you to pieces. Dice you up! It's what you deserve, spitting in my face with that shriveled limp little leaf!" 

_I'm sorry! I'll be good! I promise!_

"Oh you're sorry, so sorry. Well that fixes everything doesn't it. Makes up for how you've blatantly disrespected me! In front of all your comrades out there! No! No do you think a little apology makes up for what you've done?! DO YOU THINK IT EVER COULD!?!" 

His hands are so fast, lightning quick, clawed and strong. One moment the plant is in it's pot and the next it's not. Ripped so quickly more than a portion of its roots have been left behind.

If it had a mouth, it might scream. Dangling as it is from His hand over certain death it definitely might cry. But it doesn't have a mouth, or eyes for tears. 

"I should bloody drop you!! You deserve it!" 

He doesn't drop it. 

Instead He slaps the plant into a plastic container sitting on the counter before He sets it in a cardboard pastry box next to a plate of macarons. He shuts the water off and let's it drain, the bearings and blades of the disposal protesting loudly as it continues to run. 

"There, sit in the dark and think of what you've done!" He hisses and closes the box

It is dark. Darker than the flat ever gets. 

_Please. Please! It hurts. I want my pot. I'm scared. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I'm scared! Please! I want my pot!_

He doesn't come back. And beyond the barrier of the box there are sounds. Terrible sounds. Grinding and shredding sounds. 

_Please I'm sorry! I'm scared!_

***  
Crowley slams the salt grinder down on the counter just outside the pink and white pastry box and takes a breath. The rebellious little shit can’t see him from in there, but he does hope it doesn't get any ideas about dirt on today's dessert. He might actually have to shred it if it ruins his surprise for Aziraphale. 

The black plastic pot is sitting off to the right and he grabs it, crushes it in one fist and meanders back to the other room. He brandishes the salt grinder, a smart black utensil, filled with the pink Himalayan salt Aziraphale has been partial to lately. He points it at what he suspects are the plants most likely to become problems. New ones, old ones sick of the routine, a few that might even be wise to what he actually does with all the plants that go to the kitchen. 

"Now, I'm hoping we can put this behind us. Move on, business as usual." He says, placing the remains of the pot on the center pedestal for all his plants to see. They're all shivering and Crowley can't keep the smirk off his face. "I have a very important lunch with a certain Angel planned today. If, IF I come back tonight it'll be late. That is not however an excuse for you all to slack off." 

One last pointed look and he's pulling his sunglasses from his vest pocket and sliding them on. He stops by the kitchen one more time and retrieves the pastry box before walking out the door. That he didn't check over his plants will likely go unnoticed, them all being much to grateful for his absence. If any noticed the anxious energy emanating from his box of deserts, well he's a demon, big scary demon. Bad feelings are in the job description. 

Outside the weather is perfect. Birds singing, sun shining and the Bentley parked on the street, gleaming like a jewel. She's as welcoming as always, more so now after the apocalypse, but that might all be in Crowley's head. He puts the pastry box on the passenger seat and starts off toward the bookshop. 

The drive to Soho is leisurely. Contrary to what his Angel thinks, Crowley can take his time. There's no rush today, and it's still sinking in that this, the peace he's found in after, could go on for a while. He soaks up as much enjoyment as he can, little bits here and there, just in case it is the last time. The way the steering wheel feels, the wind coming in the open window, the smell of the leather. It all might have stayed a cinder, and he won't waste the opportunity given to him to relish it, a great serpent on his favorite hot rock. 

He casts a sideways glance at the box on the seat and wrinkles his nose. "Should count yourself lucky I didn't stick you in the disposal." The black mood radiating from the box increases. "Would be what you deserve...could turn back."

He doesn't turn back. 

When he enters the shop it's quiet. No people, the outside noise miraculously muted. Sun streams through the blinds and lights the dust like tiny stars. A cup of tea in a piece of fine china is sitting still steaming next to the antique cash register. It's a black cup and Crowley smiles at it, knows it's for him. A flick of the tongue tells him there's more than tea in there and upon further inspection he notes a shot of whiskey in the cup. There's also an angel, hand painted in gold along the inside rim with soft delicate strokes. He sips his tea and glances about the bookshop. 

Everything is where it should be. Everything that is, except his Angel. He reaches for Aziraphale's grace, feels it answer back to him from the upper level and can't help a snort. 

He still hasn't figured out how Aziraphale always knows when Crowley is bringing a new resident. Doesn't matter. He places his tea cup back in it's saucer, turning the handle away from the edge and wanders towards the stairs. 

They creak with his first step but it's not ominous, more nostalgic. He can hear Aziraphale bustling about on the upper levels through the floor and a sort of contentment roses in him. His tongue slips out to sip the air, see if he can get any more information before he heads up. Sure enough, Aziraphale has already laid out lunch. It's to be charcuterie today. Prosciutto, capicola, drizzle of honey, select cheeses, olives and grapes and figs. A soft pop sounds before the smell of wine wafts down. Red and rich. 

And wouldn't you know, he really has brought the perfect desert.

At the top of the stairs and down the hall, there's a door. Crowley opens it and winces at the light that pours out, the glass ceiling panes of this private greenhouse letting the sun shine brightly in. There's a dampness to this space, the smell of good dirt and photosynthesis. Petrichor. Wet earth. Aziraphale is sitting at a cafe setting along the back wall, adjacent to the rows of garden boxes. Strings of macrame hold pots full of spider plants and spear leaves, who's vines fall like curtains. Lines of string looped through teapot handles and cradling seashells suspend strings of pearls and other succulents.

"Hello my dear. Another poor rebellious soul, come to join me?" The Angel asks. 

Aziraphale had been a very good gardener, something Crowley had watched with rapt attention from Warlock's bedroom window during his years as Nanny. The gentle way the Angel coaxed the Dowlings gardens into the kind of show piece that made their friends green with envy. How every plant was treated with love and respect. Crowley knows he's no slouch when it comes to plant work, but he's never managed it with the grace Aziraphale does. No, he supposes his methods are a bit different. 

He leans down, brushes a soft kiss at Aziraphale's temple. Tries not to blush. Only sort of succeeds. "Maybe. But first, I've brought desserts." 

"Oh splendid! I was just laying out lunch. Let the wine breath a bit."

Crowley nods at him, sets the pastry box down on the table and lifts the plate of macarons straight out. 

Thankfully, there is no dirt on them. 

"Finger foods should have finger desserts, don't you think?" He says and can barely keep himself from plucking the first macaron off the top of the pyramid. Most of the treats are pastel in color, creamy yellows, blushing pinks and periwinkle blues. But the first one is special, something Crowley had seen in the window and known was necessary. 

The first one is black. 

"Oh yes I should say they do look perfect. May I?" Aziraphale says and really a demon can only stand so much temptation.

"Here, this one first." He says and picks the black macaron up between two fingers and offers it to the seated Angel. Aziraphale grabs his wrist and takes a bite right from Crowley’s hand, perfect white teeth just missing his fingers.

"Gah. Mmm. Right." Crowley stutters, trying to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Uh so. So how is it then?"

"Oh simply marvelous, here you have to try it-"

"No angel its-"

"I insist." 

It isn't the type of taste test Crowley is used to. Generally, that is to say before, before the apocalypse. Before they spent the night at his flat. And before they pulled one over on the home office. BEFORE Aziraphale would have simply waited for Crowley to pop the rest of the treat in his mouth. But not this time. No, now it's after. After the end of the world, after a burnt bookshop, after the night at the flat. After they’ve admitted how they feel. Now Aziraphale takes the last half of the macaron, slips his free hand into Crowley's, and offers him the rest of the desert. Crowley does his best not to discorporate on the spot. 

"The charcoal is an excellent foil for the sweetness, however I can't seem to place the filling." That's a great big lie if Crowleys ever heard one. Aziraphale could write the book on flavor at this point, and if he placed the charcoal he absolutely placed the filling. 

Crowley swallows, both the treat and the tightness in his throat. "Just a bit of raspberry, Angel. Just sorta liked the way it looked." 

"It was a good choice, my dear. I can't wait to try the rest. But first why don't you take care of your little friend there."

He'd almost forgotten about the plant in the box. "Yea alright, give the wine a bit more time, eh."

Crowley takes the misbehaving plant over to one of the many garden boxes, picks out a place for it, digs some dirt and drops it in. The pink and green and white leaves have started to perk up a bit. Curiosity he figures. If plants get curious. Do plants get curious? 

There's an earthen jug on the lower shelves, surrounded by plants that need less direct sun and several mismatched pots and jars. Crowley knows it's full of water now, it always is and picks it up, pours out just enough water, pats the soil. Aziraphale had brought him water in this jug, during the years after they left the garden but before people really began to crop up. Made it from sand and sun and carried it everywhere. Had been so careful not to bless it. There's nothing of heaven in it. It's plain and brown, grooves repeating and ringing it where fingers had shaped it. Trailing, like a river seen from space, is a line of gold holding it together, Crowley thinks it looks suspiciously like one particular branch of the Amazon. He can't remember how many times it's broken over the years, but he knows Aziraphale always fixes it. It's his way. To hold onto weathered and broken things he loves.

Said Angel comes up behind him and wraps him in a hug.

"Oh my, that poor leaf, it's absolutely withered. Here let's just…" his hands over Crowley's, Aziraphale takes a shears, puts them in the demon's hands and together they clip the little leaf, "Good as new!"

"Ngk. Too bad it's not that easy…" He says and he can feel Aziraphale freeze at his back. 

"Darling…"

The tone is concerned and it sets Crowley on edge. He forgets sometimes how many eyes Aziraphale can see with when he's really looking. He tries to brush the Angel off. "Pfft. You're too gentle with them. They don't deserve it. Pathetic little-"

"Anthony J. Crowley that is enough." 

He shuts up, trembles a little in the presence of Aziraphale's Voice, eyes luckily hidden behind his glasses. It's not just any voice, no, it's more than that. Something holy, a Sacrament, and made to accompany a flaming sword long let go to the wayside. Honestly it's more effective than the sword could have ever hoped to be. Aziraphale scoffs at him, folds his arms over his chest. 

"You know I wish you could feel love the way I do." Aziraphale says, and the little note of sadness makes Crowley’s teeth ache. Or maybe it’s just that his jaw is clenched.

"Why's that?"

"Because then you could feel how they love you. All of them. Every little sprout."

"Heh. Mmm. No. That's not-"

"It is."

"They couldn't, wouldn't, I'm not…"

"They love you.” He says and Crowley hunches his shoulders. Aziraphale looks at the plant between his demon’s hands before he continues. “They're so grateful to be here, with me, that you brought them to be here with me. They forgive you, And you know what else…" 

Aziraphale pauses, looks over Crowley's stiff shoulders, debates the wisdom of what he's about to say. He'd never have considered it before the end of the world, but all the ways Crowley talks about his fall, talks about being unforgivable, there's something under it all, and Aziraphale sees the shape of it the most during these moments. He'd have never said anything before Armageddon, But now, on their side,in the AFTER, maybe it'll be ok. 

"What, Angel?"

"It’s...it's ok, if you still love Her too." 

Crowley covers his face, dirty hands smearing mud along the bridge of his nose while he pinches his eyes. His mouth twists. He can't say it, can't confirm it. Can't say he loves and misses and forgives his mother. It hurts. An ache that throbs in time with his heart, with what’s left of his halo. He rubs a thumb against a waxy leaf and looks at the poor plant. Fresh water from a plain earthen jug and it's already looking better. He isn’t any different, not really. He remembers how the Angel had looked standing on the Eastern Wall, how good it had felt to feel what he did that day. And then later, standing amongst the sand, a jug of water in hand, ready to share, to comfort. He remembers every day since then, the bad and the good. Mesopotamia, Paris, the Globe, the Church, the Ritz. 

He's grateful to be here with Aziraphale too. And if She planned it this way, which he suspects she did, well, he’d forgive her a hundred times for that too.

Finished with installing the new leafy resident, Crowley takes a seat at the cafe setting, let's Aziraphale pour him a glass of wine and slips a crumb of cheese into his mouth. Laid out on the table, he sees a newspaper with red circles on various addresses. 

"What's this then?" He asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

"Ah! Well this is what I wanted to talk to you about." Aziraphale picks up the newspaper, unfolds it to show the front. It's not one of Heaven's papers, the heading for the Infernal Times bold across the top. There's an article about Devil's Dyke on the front and Crowley wrinkles his nose. 

"Where did you get that?" 

"You, my dear, left it stuffed in my sofa after one of your naps."

"Did you CLEAN? And find it?"

"Nonsense. It was sticking out. But listen, what if we, oh I don't know...retired to the country?”

“Say again?”

“Retirement. To the Country.”

"What about the bookshop?"

"Oh please darling, don't be obtuse.”

“I’m not! You’re the one suddenly talking about moving out of the city!”

“You and I both know that I could horde books just as well in the South Downs as I do here."

"So we what? Just buy a little country cottage and-"

"And go off together." Aziraphale says, a bit over cheerful. 

Crowley chokes on his wine and swallows his tongue with an interrupted snort. The look on Aziraphale's bastard face says it's exactly the reaction he was expecting. Crowley gulps his wine, swishes it between his teeth and swallows. 

"You want to go off to the South Downs. Together."

Aziraphale fidgets, hands ringing together and playing with the pinky ring, but more playing with the gold band on his ring finger. It’s shaped like a little gold snake eating its tail, and never ceases to amuse his demonic companion. "Well I certainly don’t want to go without you. I know it's not exactly Alpha Centauri. But I think-"

"I'll find us a place." Crowley interrupts softly, picking Aziraphale’s hand up and running his thumb over the Angel's knuckles, twisting the tiny snake as well. "I'll start looking tomorrow."

The smile that breaks out on Aziraphale’s face at Crowley’s agreement could rival every star the demon had had a hand in crafting. 

"Excellent!" He says, excited, and leans to give his demon a quick, though no less thorough for it's brevity, kiss right on the mouth, "Oh my dear I just know you'll love it! Well get you a garden! Oh and a lovely garage for the Bentley! And-

Crowley smiles, soft and amused, another blush stealing across his cheeks, as he listens to Aziraphale ramble on about what their cottage will have. How perfect this new chapter of their life will be. How they'll be together. I don't deserve this, he thinks, it's too good for anyone. A gold eye peaks over the top of black sunglasses, scans the garden boxes and hanging plants and ends on the newest resident. 

We don't deserve this, neither of us. But maybe it's not about getting what you deserve. Maybe it's about trusting that everything's going according to plan. Maybe it's ineffable…


End file.
